


doubt the stars are fire

by bringyouhometoo



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Magic, also a shameless amount of hogwarts tropes, also rating may or may not go up depending on my mood but probably not much, and quotes, angst i mean not that much, background mels/clara, background ten/rose, but just like stubborn children being awful at communicating, i don't know how people tag things on AO3 i am so sorry, inexplicably there is no voldemort, is also there, more might be added, oh right i should warn for side ships, right - Freeform, sirius's moterbike, the usual, unhappy rory/amy, you can swear in T fics right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringyouhometoo/pseuds/bringyouhometoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Amelia Pond prays to Santa to send her someone to explain the weird and unusual things she can do, she does not expect help to arrive in the form of a nine-year old boy on a crashed flying motorbike. Amy and Eleven Hogwarts AU and all the ridiculously self-indulgent tropes that entails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> BIRTHDAY FIC FOR Samantha Kate who is a total babe and fairytalenames on tumblr go follow her if you don't already. I promised her a Hogwarts AU for a (slightly) different fandom like a year ago. Thought it was time I delivered. Title is from Hamlet yes I know there's a 'thou' missing yes that will probably keep me up at night the things I do for love and nicely-flowing titles. There will be Potter quotes but no major Potter characters. You will recognise scenes and quotes because I'm a self-indulgent mess, but don't look too hard for any ship parallels I think I've stolen from about five different ones at this point.`

“Dear Santa, thank you for the dolls and the pencils. And the fish! It’s… Easter now, so I hope I didn’t wake you, but, honest, it is an emergency. There’s…I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Amelia pauses, screws her eyes up tighter; _how_ to say this next bit? “Aunt Sharon says it’s just my imagination, but I know it’s not, ‘cause at night, there’s…” She drops her voice to a whisper.  “My teddy gave me a hug. When we’re walking in the park I can get to the playground by wishing. And when I snap my fingers, sometimes – “

She opens her eyes, unclasps her hands, and snaps three fingers together. A tiny, dancing flame blossoms on the tip of her middle finger, cool and ticklish against her skin – but when she holds her face to it, she can feel the heat radiating out.

“Please, please would you send someone to help me?” Amelia whispers, her eyes trained helplessly on the flame, her stomach in knots. “A teacher, or a doctor, or…”

There’s a loud crash in the garden. Amelia jumps up, and her hands drop to her side – the fire goes out before it can touch the edge of her nightie, and she races to the window. There’s an indistinct lump in the garden, obscured by the smoke billowing from it. The _thing –_ whatever it is – seems to have crashed into her shed. The thing is, though – Amelia blinks, hard, but it’s still there – the garden fence is still standing, and there’s no way the bike (she can see the wheels now and a handlebar) would have fit through the side gate. It can’t have been driven in, and anyway, she didn’t hear a motor. She just heard it crash….heard it _land_ on top of the shed.

Such a powerful wave of relief sweeps through Amelia that, for a moment, she feels lightheaded. She bites her lip, and then makes her decision, taking a quick glance up the North Star (which is a far more sensible place for Santa to live than Lapland, she’s always thought; there are too many people in _Lapland,_ someone would have _seen_ him).

“Thank you, Santa.”

*

By the time she gets down to the garden, the fire burning brightly on her fingertips again to help her light her way, there’s a boy clambering out of the motorbike, his head a mess of engine oil and unruly hair, his shirt torn to shreds and his tie in tatters. A branch cracks under Amelia’s wellies, and his head snaps up. For a minute, all they can do is stare at each other; the boy who fell out of the sky and the girl with a fire sitting in the palm of her hand; there’s plenty to stare at. Then:

“Can I have an apple?”

Amelia takes a step back, utterly bewildered. “What?”

“All I can think about, apples,” the boy grins at her. “Maybe I’m having a craving. That’s new! Never had a craving before – no. Wait.” He points a finger at her, his tone almost accusatory. “What is that?”

“Fire.”

“How are you doing it?”

Amelia narrows her eyes. “How did you fly into my garden?”

The boy lets out a small laugh, then hops off the motorbike and comes to a wobbly stop in front of her. “Right then. No time to lose!”

He marches off, presumably in the direction of the house, and Amelia makes to follow him – until he walks straight into an old oak tree, and is knocked to the floor. Still not sure if she should be out here, if she should call for help or if he _is_ the help she was asking for, Amelia peers down at him.

“You okay?”

“Hell of a fall,” the boy wheezes slightly, rolling over and getting back to his feet. “Steering’s a bit off.”

Amelia purses her lips, doubtful; the boy must pick up on it, because he gives her a slightly manic grin. “So! Apples?”

Deciding he probably won’t tell her anything _useful_ until he gets his apple, Amelia leads the way back to the kitchen.

*

Except, of course, it isn’t quite that simple. The boy – who introduces himself, eventually, as Peter –takes one bite out of the proffered apple, and spits it out.

“That’s disgusting,” he pronounces. “What is that?”

“An apple,” Amelia says, helpless.

“Apples are _rubbish.”_ Peter wrinkles his nose. “I hate apples.”

“You said you loved them!”

“Yeah, well,” Peter shrugs, gives her a maddeningly sort of superior smile. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Amelia Pond.”

“Oh, that’s a brilliant name,” Peter gasps, like she’s just given him the best present in the world. “Amelia Pond! Like a name in a fairytale.”

Amelia laughs; she’s always thought it’s a name that should belong to a granny or a mad old auntie, but never to a seven year old girl. The way Peter says it, though – it really does sound a bit fairytale, almost like magic.

“I’m still hungry, though, Amelia,” he says then, as if suddenly catching on to a thread of thought from minutes ago. “I’ll have yoghurt! Yoghurt’s my favourite.”

She gives him a yoghurt; he spits it out. He spits the baked beans into the sink. He throws a plate of bread and butter out into the garden, which privately Amelia thinks is a _bit much._ It’s only when she’s turning the hob back on for him to give a few rashers of bacon a try that he stops her, and remembers why he’s here.

“That thing,” he says, suddenly excited. “Can you show me again?”

“What thing?”

“That – “ Peter gestures at the hob. “You turned the gas on, and clicked your _fingers,_ and it _lit._ ”

“Oh….” Amelia blushes slightly, and rubs her hands against her nightie. She hadn’t even noticed doing it, that time. “That. Um, I don’t know.”

He stares at her for a minute, clearly trying to decide if she’s lying to him. Then, he seems to make a decision.

“You’re a witch.”

“I’m _not a-”_ Amelia stops, suddenly breathless. “Is that what it is?”

Peter beams at her, and then claps his hands together. Instantly, a floating ball appears between them, sort of like a snow globe filled with light.

“It’s not just you,” he tells her, voice brimming with excitement. “There’s hundreds of us. My whole family was. What about you, your mum and dad, they’re muggles, yeah?”

Amelia bites her lip. “Haven’t got a mum and dad,” she says, hating the way her voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Just an aunt. And she’s…normal. She didn’t believe me when I told her about the fire and stuff.”

Peter stares at her, his eyes softening slightly. “I haven’t even got an aunt,” he tells her.

“You’re lucky!”

“I know,” he grins, and Amelia giggles slightly. “That’s why I’m here, camping, just me and my big brother, it’s great.”

“And your brother, he’s…”

“A wizard? Yeah,” Peter nods. “Fifth year at Hogwarts now – that’s the school for magic. I’ll be going in two years too, I can’t wait. John says it’s _brilliant_.”

“Can-”The words feel weighty against Amelia’s lips, almost like the question is too big for her to ask. “Can I come?”

Peter’s eyes light up. “Yeah, of course you can!”

Excitement fizzes through Amelia’s veins, filling her up until she thinks she could float away – she half-expects to start levitating, but maybe that’s too much to manage without any kind of lessons.

“Not for another few years,” Peter says then, interrupting Amelia’s thoughts; he watches her, eyes flashing with concern when her face drops. “Just because you’re too little! I am too, I can’t go till I’m eleven. _Rubbish,_ but nothing I can do about it.”

“Oh.” Amelia tries not to let the disappointment sting. For a minute there, for a full minute, she’d thought she was leaving Aunt Sharon’s – leaving her tiny room, leaving all the hours spent waiting outside doctor’s offices, leaving the grown ups’ sympathetic smiles and hushed whispers about _that poor kid –_ but it’s not _never_ , it’s just _not right now._ “Eleven? That’s…” she counts, and scowls. “ _Four_ years.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter tells her quickly, nudging his toe of his boot against her wellies when her lip starts trembling. “Amelia! Listen. Come with me right now, I’ll wake my brother up, he can tell you more about it and stuff, maybe if you ask him to talk to Dumbledore – he’s the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, he’s _really_ old but really good, John says – and maybe there’s something else you could do, you know, like…maybe you could visit John with me at Christmas and Easter! That’d be so much fun, I can show you the castle and the lake and the Quidditch pitch – you’ll love Quidditch, it’s the best sport there is, and everyone’s on broomsticks –“

He’s talking too quickly for Amelia to keep up, her ears catching words like _Hippogriffs_ and _castle_ and _Quidditch_ and sending her mind reeling.

“Okay,” she cuts in, laughing a little when he pouts. “Yes please.”

“Come on, then, Pond,” he says abruptly, reaching for her hand. Amelia barely has the presence of mind to pick up her coat again, and then he’s pulling her out into the garden.

*

It’s only when they reach the shed, and the still-smoking motorbike, that Peter stops. “Okay, so I can’t take you with me on this,” he says, brow furrowing. “Not safe. _And_ John doesn’t know I’ve taken it, he’ll be so mad – listen, I know! I’ll fly it back and hide it before he wakes up, and then tell him I found you and we’ll come right back. I can apparate with him, so it’ll only be five minutes.”

Amelia pulls a face. “Can’t I just sit behind you on the bike?”

“Not safe,” he says earnestly. “But give me five minutes, I’ll be right back.”

“People...” Amelia closes her eyes briefly, tries to block out sudden rush of memories; the goodbye kiss to the top of her head, the promise of bringing home fish and chips for tea – the waiting, the hours of waiting in the living room as it got dark, too scared to move or to use the phone or to even turn on the lights. The knock on the door. The police woman’s face, sort of set and sad and kind. The way she’d shook her head blankly, _no, she’ll be back soon, she said she’d be back in five minutes._ “People always say that.”

Peter looks at her evenly. “Am I people?” he asks, and Amelia feels the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Do I even look like people?”

Without waiting for a reply, he reaches for the bike and pulls it upright. Then – with a half-cocky, half-excited grin at Amelia – he clambers on, twists the handle and revs the engine up. Two presses of a purple button, and suddenly there’s an almighty roar as he’s pulling the front wheel up, up, _up,_ and the bike is speeding away with a crashing sound as it clears the trees and a cloud of smoke that almost burns her eyes. Amelia blinks it away, too excited to notice the sting, and keeps her gaze fixed on the sky.

Five minutes.


	2. Year One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND HERE'S THE FIRST PROPER CHAPTER. Enjoy.

Amy presses her face against the train window, watching the platform speed away. There’s noise and commotion all around her – friends hugging each other after a whole summer at home, other first years leaning out and shouting a last goodbye to their mums and dads, owls screeching, a cat that brushes past her legs – but she doesn’t care. As London gives way to countryside and the corridors calm down a bit, Amy finally pulls her face back from the window. Her eyes are wet, she’s surprised to find – but she also can’t stop smiling.

Four years. Four years of being told she just had a really vivid dream, she must have sleepwalked into the garden, _don’t be silly, Amelia, there’s no such thing as magic, a flying motorbike, honestly_ …

Four years of waiting, of biding her time through school and home and all the people with understanding smiles and little notebooks that her aunt takes her to, in a fit of frankly hypocritical desire to see her niece back from what she’d called _fantasy land_ –

 _Four years,_ and now she’s finally here.

“Excuse me?”

Amy whirls around, and feels her stomach plummet to somewhere around her knees. The boy standing in front of her has got his robes on already, a blue-and-bronze knotted into a bow shape around his neck. He’s lankier now, like he’s starting to grow into his features. But he’s unmistakeable.

She opens her mouth, about to say something – when he speaks instead.

“I’m looking for Amelia Pond.”

Amy closes her mouth,

“Amelia Pond?”

“Yeah, little Scottish girl, red hair, about this tall…” he gestures somewhere around his waist, and Amy feels the strangest desire to laugh. “She’s supposed to start this year. Have you seen her anywhere?”

“No, I’m…“ In a flash, Amy decides what to do.  Reaching up to pull her hat down more securely around her ears, she clears her throat, and thinks, _English._ “Amelia Pond isn’t coming to Hogwarts.”

“What?” Peter looks so distraught, Amy almost feels bad for him. Almost. “Has something happened to her?”

Amy freezes, suddenly not at all sure how to carry this on, when she’s rescued by a shout from behind her.

“Amy?”

She turns, and apparently today is a day for surprises all around, because the sandy-haired boy making his way down the corridor towards her looks about as shocked as she feels.

“ _Rory_?” Amy laughs, a surprised half-giggle that makes Rory blink too quickly, the tips of his ears suddenly very red. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean, _what I am doing here,_ what are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m going to Hogwarts!”

“Well, so am I,” Rory tells her, almost defensively. “You’re a witch, then?”

Amy nods, her nerves thrilling with the freeing sensation – she can _tell people,_ now.

“Why didn’t you _say_?” Rory demands.

“Why didn’t _you_ say?” Amy counters, and then they’re both smiling, a little foolish. Amy’s about to ask Rory if he’s always known, if his mum was one, too, or if it’s his dad, although somehow she can’t imagine funny old Brian Williams as anything other than a postman, when Peter clears his throat behind her.

“Oh,” Rory says, face twisting into the sort of instant dislike Amy knows he’s only too capable of. “Who are you?”

“I’m Peter Smith,” Peter says. “Who are _you_?”

“This is Rory,” Amy says, forgetting for a moment that Peter doesn’t know her either, or doesn’t _know_ he does. “My friend from Leadworth-“

“Boyfriend.”

Amy pulls a face. Trust Rory to bring that up! She’d only said yes because Laura and Mandy had called her mad at lunchtime and kept giggling when she told them to shut up, and _anyway,_ they’d just gone to the playground, he didn’t even try to hold her hand or anything –

“ _Kind of_ boyfriend,” she emphasises, only feeling a little guilty when Rory sulks.

“Amy…”

“Okay, no, that’s not – listen to me, this is important,” Peter says, reaching out and grabbing Amy’s hand to pull her closer. “What happened to Amelia Pond?”

Amy buys herself a few seconds by taking a step back and stomping on Rory’s foot, hard, to stop whatever it is he’s about to blurt out –

“She decided not to come.”

“That’s rubbish,” Peter decides. “Amelia was really excited, she wouldn’t _not come to Hogwarts,_ and anyway, she was really good already when she was only seven, so they must have noticed her and everything, there’s no way she’s not…”

“She moved away,” Amy says abruptly, panicking now, not knowing how much longer she can keep this up. “She’s going to…” _Think quickly think quickly think quickly._ “The….Salem…..Institute…in America!”

Peter stares at how, then – without so much as a glance at Rory – he grabs her by the arm and steers her into an empty compartment. He fiddles with the door for a moment, making sure it’s shut tightly, then wheels around to stare her down.

 “No she’s not,” Peter says flatly. “The Salem Institute isn’t a school, it’s a college. You don’t go till you’re eighteen. And _you_ –“ he points an accusatory finger at her. “Are lying to me. Why?”

Amy’s hands are clammy; she tries to surreptitiously wipe them on the sides of her coat, and gestures vaguely towards the door.

“I need to go find Rory, he’s probably…outside,” she says, a little weakly; Peter shakes his head firmly.

“No. This is important. Why did you lie to me? What is it you know? Why did you say Amelia moved away?”

Amy shakes her head, too exhausted to keep this up and too flustered to remember she’s angry at him.

“ _Tell me,”_ Peter insists. “I need to find her, she’s my friend and I was looking forward to seeing her, so tell me, why did you say she moved away?”

 _My friend._ That twists into Amy’s stomach like a knife – because they’ve been _such good friends_ these last four years, and oh, _now_ she remembers how to be angry –

“ _Why did you say five minutes_?”

Peter is staring at her, his eyes very round – she can almost see the gears working, see him realise that she hasn’t sounded even remotely English ever since Rory showed up, that her name’s _Amy,_ that two curls of red hair are clinging to the side of her face, pulled free from the pins and sticking out from under her hat.

Amy reaches up and pulls it off completely, refusing to meet Peter’s eyes. She’s still _cross,_ but it’s simmered down now, bubbling quietly in the pit of her stomach but beginning to get overshadowed by her excitement – it’s hard to be anything _but_ excited, she’s on the train to _magic school._ Peter must notice something change in her expression, because his eyes light up, and he throws his arms around her.

“Amelia!”

“It’s Amy,” she corrects him, a little breathless from the sudden onslaught but laughing anyway, patting him sort of mechanically on the back. Peter pulls back and stares at her, then shakes his head.

“But _Amelia Pond,_ ” he protests. “That was a brilliant name, why’d you change it?”

She holds his eyes for a beat too long. “Bit fairytale.”

*

There’s a slightly sticky moment later, when Rory pokes his head around the compartment door and gives Amy such a plaintive look that she can’t help feeling guilty, and Peter looking unbearably smug in the corner is _not helping,_ but pretty soon they get to talking about Houses and Quidditch and which lessons they’re most looking forward to – Rory says he thinks Potions sounds fun, and Peter laughs for a full minute, but at least they can all agree that flying lessons are going to be the _best thing ever –_ and then, suddenly hours have passed, the lunch trolley has been and gone, and it’s getting dark before Amy thinks to check the time.

“We better get dressed,” she tells Rory, rolling her eyes when he blushes. _Boys._ “We’ll be there soon, you muppet.”

“Right,” Rory nods, standing up and reaching for his trunk. “Um, I’ll get out of your way.”

He stumbles outside, and Amy takes a minute to clear her face of the half-exasperated grin tugging at her lips before turning around to face Peter again. He smiles at her, a little blankly.

“What?”

“I need to get ready.”

“Yes, you do,” he agrees pleasantly; Amy doesn’t know if she should laugh or snap at him. In the end, she settles on both.

“Peter…” she manages, half a laugh already escaping.

“Yes?”

“I need to get changed. You need to leave.”

“Oh,” Peter shrugs, waving his hand. “Doesn’t embarrass me.”

Amy rolls her eyes, then crosses the compartment to grab him by the shoulders. “Okay, out you go,” she says, manoeuvring Peter out into the corridor and shutting the door in his face with a smile and a “see you later!”

She gets changed with an almost unbearable excitement fizzing in the pit of her stomach, excitement and nerves and – something else, too, something she can’t quite put a name to but has a lot to do with the fact that they’ve been talking for five hours, that for the first time in a _very_ long time she hasn’t had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out her secret or to avoid the inevitable _we’re just concerned about you_ conversations. She’s been excited to go to Hogwarts for what feels like half her life – but now, for the first time, Amy is looking forward to it, too. She’s got friends here. The way they found each other (again) might have been a little unorthodox, but she knows already that it won’t matter in the end.

***

“Amy,” Peter shouts, running towards her from across the courtyard, face alight with energy and excitement. “Hey! Amelia!”

Amy grins, laughing a little when he bounds to a stop in front of her, still bouncing on the balls of his feet. She can practically see him _vibrating_ with enthusiasm. “Hi Peter. Happy Halloween!”

“Happy Halloween,” Peter nods quickly, impatiently. When Amy gives him a significant look, he appears to remember some form of his manners. “Hi Mels.”

“Hey,” Mels grins, nudging Amy lightly with her hip when she doesn’t say anything. “How’re you?”

“Oh, I’m great, yeah,” Peter nods, eyes lighting up again. “I’ve just had this really incredible idea, we –“

But then he stops, face settling into something like a neutral expression for the first time. “I needed to ask Amy about a book she’s got from the library.”

“A book,” Mels echoes, one eyebrow raised. “Okay.”

Amy grins, watching Peter shuffle slightly, his face a picture of torment. It’s difficult not to enjoy these little moments – once Mels’ awe at Amy for knowing a _third year_ had worn off (which, admittedly, took about half an hour) and once she’d established that Peter was the easiest boy in school to make uncomfortable – except maybe Rory, and that’s only Amy – Mels had immediately set to work embarrassing him at every opportune moment.

She’s staring at Peter now, her chin lifted, half in a challenge. “So this book,” she prompts, eventually, and Peter lets out a funny kind of strangled noise, like he’s choking on his own spit. Amy’s got her fingers pressed against her mouth, but her shoulders are shaking; if Mels keeps this up much longer Amy suspects she’ll completely lose it.

Mels must be feeling charitable, though, because she just gives Peter an exaggeratedly friendly smile, and waggles her fingers at Amy. “See you in Charms?”

“I’ll catch up with you,” Amy promises, hiccupping over trying not to laugh for so long, and then Mels is gone and Peter visibly collapses in on himself. “Peter!”

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding genuinely miserable.

“Why couldn’t you just _say_ what you wanted?” Amy asks, hands on her hips. “Mels is my friend! She’s cool, I think you’d get on really well.”

Peter shrugs, scuffing the heel of his shoe against the cobblestones. “I don’t think Mels likes me much.”

Amy considers this; from his point of view, he sort of has a point.

“She thinks you’re funny,” she settles on; when Peter looks outraged, she raises an eyebrow. “ _I_ think you’re funny!”

“Yeah, but – you don’t –“ he flaps his hand vaguely. “Mels is _difficult_ about it.”

Amy snorts, unimpressed, and Peter pulls a face. “ _Anyway,_ ” he presses on. “That’s not what I came to talk to you about.”

“Oh really?” Amy deadpans, deciding there and then to be a little _more difficult._ “I had no idea.”

“Ha ha,” Peter says, unconvinced. “No, I _wanted_ to ask what you’re doing later.”

Amy grins despite herself. “Whatever it is you’re bursting to tell me about, I guess.”

“Correct!” Peter’s face lights up. “Listen, so, there are all these passages that go from Hogwarts down into the village, okay, and there’s one that goes right into Honeydukes, and at breakfast this morning I heard John tell Rose the password, and _would you like to go to Hogsmeade, Amy Pond_?”

For a moment, all Amy can do is gape at him, processing the onslaught of information. “Um.”

“Oh, say yes, please,” Peter says, eyes fixed on hers. “Honeydukes, Amy! You’ve never been to Honeydukes!”

“Won’t they notice we’re from Hogwarts?”

Peter shrugs. “We can go in muggle clothes. Anyway, they won’t care, the tricky part is getting out of the castle.”

“I don’t know…” Amy shrugs, torn; she _desperately_ wants to go to Hogsmeade, but she also doesn’t want to get expelled. “Won’t we get in horrific trouble if they catch us?”

“So we don’t let them catch us,” Peter says, with that smile that makes it sound like the easiest thing in the world. “Anyway, if they do, it’s not that bad. We’ll lose House Points, but I’ll probably lose more than you so Gryffindor won’t have to excommunicate you or anything. And detention, but those aren’t that bad, honest. Everyone gets them.”

Amy laughs, and shakes her head at that. “Not _everyone,_ Peter.”

“Everyone _fun,_ ” he insists. “Come on, Amy! It’s Halloween! And, and I know you said you used to always trick or treat and that’s not really done a lot here, so I thought getting a load of sweets from Honeydukes would be kind of the same thing. It’s treats, anyway. And sneaking out definitely counts as a trick. I thought – I thought you’d be really happy,” he finishes, a little anxiously, and Amy can feel what little resolve she had left, crumbling.

“Can you get us back in time for tonight?”

“Course, it’s not far,” Peter says confidently, then pauses. “What’s tonight?”

“Peter!” Amy smacks him on the arm. “Halloween! The feast! You know, stuff!”

“Stuff,” Peter repeats, and Amy hits him again. “Ouch! Okay, okay, back in time for stuff.”

“Oh, shut up.”

*

“Okay,” Peter whispers, peering up through a small crack in the trap door. “Looks like the coast is clear.”

Amy, giving him a leg up and with her face full of his robes, has to stifle a nervous giggle. “Okay!”

“Let me down, then!”

“Oh! Sorry, sorry…”

Once Peter’s back on solid ground, it takes the two of them another confusing, hilarious minute or so to actually push the trapdoor open – and then Peter’s scrambling up into the cellar, taking another look around before reaching back down to help Amy up.

“We did it,” he tells her, face splitting into a wide grin. “We’re in Honeydukes!”

“We are! We really, actually are!” Amy shrieks, a little too loudly – Peter slaps his hand against her mouth, eyes wide with panic. They freeze for a moment, and then the unthinkable happens; they hear approaching footsteps on the staircase.

“ _Hide_ ,” Peter hisses, tugging on Amy’s arm and crouching down behind a few crates of Chocolate Frogs. Amy scrambles to hide next to him, tugging on her scarf and whisking it from view just as a tall man reaches the bottom of the stairs.

For an awful, excruciating second, Amy is sure he’s come down here to check what that noise was – that they’ve been caught before they even got started – but then he just shoulders a few boxes of Fizzing Whisbees. He’s already turned around and heading back towards the stairs when it happens; Amy’s foot twitches impatiently, and the toes of her boots kick against the wall with a soft thud.

The man pauses and looks around, clearly mystified. Amy thinks he might be about to start looking around the boxes to find the source of the noise, and that thought alone is enough to send her into a flustered panic –

He stands there for a full minute, clearly waiting to see if whatever made that noise is going to do it again –

And then shrugs to himself, clearly deciding it must have been an old pipe, or something.

He’s halfway up the stairs when Peter nudges her, “Can you breathe a bit quieter, please?” he asks her in a hoarse whisper, and Amy glares at him.

“No!”

That was too loud and they both know it; but the man is far away enough now, and they can hear the door to the shop swinging shut; they collapse in a pile of relief and released tension.

“That was too close,” Amy says weakly, when she feels like she can breathe again; Peter doesn’t reply, just nods fervently.

Then he sits bolt upright. “Of course, now we have to sneak into the shop without anyone seeing us,” he says matter-of-factly – but Amy’s glare is apparently too murderous for him to keep up the act any longer than that, and he breaks into a grin. “Or we can use the delivery door from here into the street. Come on!”

They hurry outside, both impatient now that they’re actually here – Peter unlocks the door with a mumbled spell, and then they’re out in the street, a cobbled little lane that runs along the back of the shops on Hogsmeade’s high street. The sun is starting to set, and Amy can hear the hum of activity just feet away from her – families and friends getting a bit of shopping down, meeting in the pub for a Butterbeer, maybe heading to the Post Office or the joke shop – she’s heard so much about Hogsmeade in just two months that now that she’s here the choices are almost overwhelming.

Peter nudges her, his smile wide and his eyes bright. “Now then, Amy Pond,” he says impressively, grabbing onto her hand and steering them both out into the high street. “No teachers, no lessons, Hogsmeade at your fingertips….Where do you want to start?”

*

“Come on, quickly, quickly!” Amy half-shouts, running as fast as her robes and the bulging bags of sweets and jokes she’s got pressed against her chest will let her. Peter, who decided that he absolutely _needed_ another set of Gobstones _and_ a new chess set, is a good few feet behind her.

“Stop running,” he half-whines, face bright with exertion. “We’ll get there in time, the feast doesn’t even start for another half hour.”

“I don’t want to miss any of it,” Amy tells him; but she slows down, barely. “The ghosts always do a performance, don’t they? And there’s giant pumpkins, and music, and special food, and – “

“All right, all right,” Peter laughs, pausing to wipe a hand across his face and then picking up the pace again. “Come on, you weirdo.”

“ _You’re_ a weirdo.”

“Wow, that’s a good one.”

“ _You’re_ a good one.”

 _“_ Oh, _am_ I?”

“Shut up.”

“Shan’t.”

They keep walking like that, still bickering and tossing only semi-serious jokes back and forth at each other, and when they reach the end of the passageway, Amy is half-surprised that it hasn’t taken them much longer.

“Okay,” Peter says, setting down his bags and getting out his wand. “I’ll open up the statue, hang on… _Dissendium._ ”

The hunchback starts opening – and there, in the corridor, _thankfully_ with his back turned and waking away from them, is Filch.

“They’ll be along soon enough, my sweet,” they hear, and – to Peter’s horror and Amy’s absolute terror – they see him talking to Mrs Norris. “Can’t miss the feast, can they? Yes, they’ll be along sooner or later, and when they’re here we’ll be waiting… Ohh, and there’ll be hell to pay, students out in Hogsmeade, did they think no one would notice? Lucky we’ve got eyes everywhere, eh? Ha! We’ll get the little devils, you mark my words, whoever they might be….”

He prowls off like that towards the end of the corridor, still talking softly to Mrs Norris; Amy thinks she might have stopped breathing altogether; she’s gripping on to Peter’s hand so tightly all the circulation to her fingers has been cut off.

Slowly, very slowly, they inch back into the tunnel, and Peter waves his wand, breathing out a barely-audible “ _Colloportus.”_ The statue seals itself back up just as they glimpse Filch turning on the spot and starting his round over again, and they’re left in darkness and – once they’ve retreated back around a bend in the tunnel, relative safety.  Amy is the first to move, leaning against the tunnel wall and shaking her head weakly.

“That,” she says eventually, when she feels slightly less like throwing up. “Was too close.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Peter grins, but quickly sobering up under her glare. “Okay, yes, so Filch is there and we can’t get out. But on the upside, we have sweets!”

Amy stares at him for a moment longer, then starts laughing helplessly. Once she’s started, it’s hard to stop; she doesn’t know how long they sit there like that, just laughing at each other, but by the time she’s able to get a word out her stomach almost hurts from the effort.

“Hand over a cake, then,” she says, gesturing at the bag of cakes and sweets on the floor next to Peter. “If I’m going to miss the feast we might as well get started.”

*

It’s not the feast Amy’s been looking forward to. She’s cold pretty soon, and the floor starts feeling uncomfortably damp if you sit still for too long, and the sweets fill them up but make them unbearably thirsty, and they’ve only got one bottle of pumpkin juice to share between the two of them. But Peter starts telling her a story about an old witch who lives at the bottom of a lake and can Transfigure herself to look like a beautiful mermaid or a pile of gold or a drowning baby – whatever will get the closest person into the water, where she can trap and drown them. Amy listens for a peaceful few minutes, leaning against the wall and nibbling on her seventh Chocolate Frog; eventually Peter runs out of steam.

“But what the old witch didn’t know was that the very next day, none other should arrive at her lake than…” He pauses, then nods expectantly at Amy. “Okay! Your turn.”

“Um – right,” Amy says quickly, flustered. “Er, none other than…a brilliant and fearless and _beautiful_ little girl called Amelia – “

“Boo.”

“Shut up, I’m telling the story. Anyway, this girl was called Amelia, and she used a rope to tether herself to a tree at the edge of the lake, so when the old witch Transfigured herself into a table laden with pumpkins and treacle tarts and a whole _vat_ of pumpkin juice, even though Amelia was tempted, she couldn’t jump in…”

They spin the story on through several more rounds, the piles of sweets stacked between them diminishing rapidly; the old witch gets defeated by Amelia, who runs off with the hoard of treasure she finds underground and buys a dragon, who then escapes and sets fire to the whole town but is captured and tamed by a brave knight called Peter…

When they run out of ideas, they switch to guessing games; Amy discovers that Peter has never even heard of charades, which is a _travesty_ that she sets about correcting immediately. His impression of Professor Snape alone is worth it.

Hours later – really hours, this time, Amy checks her watch – they sneak back up to the statue. Peter, flushed with tiredness and a little reckless, steps right up to it and taps it three times with his wand. “Dissend-“

 _“Quietly,_ ” Amy hisses, and Peter waves a hand at her.

“Oh, it’s fine, it’s after one, there’s no way he’s still there,” he tells her confidently. “He didn’t even know _who_ it was that snuck out, he probably just got a tip off from someone who heard us in the courtyard earlier, most likely by now he’s decided it was a clever lie… _Dissendium._ ”

The statue’s hump opens slightly, revealing a mercifully empty corridor. Amy clambers out first, lets Peter pass her the remaining toys and trinkets, and then reaches in to help him out; then, robes pressed against their faces to smother the laughter threatening to overwhelm them, they run as quietly as they can back through the silent castle.

“See you tomorrow,” Amy turns to Peter at the foot of the staircase that’ll lead her up to Gryffindor Tower.

“Yeah,” Peter grins, then pauses. “Hey.”

“What?”

“Let’s do that again next week!”

Amy lunges, but he dodges her smack, and laughs when she scowls at him. “Oh, come on, it was fun!”

“Course it was _fun,_ ” Amy allows, a little grudgingly. “It was also the most scared I’ve ever been in my whole life.”

“Not been scared by much, have you?” Peter asks, quirking an eyebrow; when Amy shakes her head, he gives her an almost worrying smile. “Oh, I’ll soon fix that.” And then – before Amy has a chance to reply, or maybe hit him again – he’s turned on his heels and started racing back towards Ravenclaw Tower.

“You’re the _worst,_ ” Amy shouts after him, but the smile on her face is bright, helpless. She’s still smiling when she gives a very sleepy Fat Lady the password, still smiling as she sneaks into her dormitory, still smiling when she finally crawls into bed.

*

They don’t do the same again the next week; instead, they go on a trek around the lake, throwing bits of toast and kippers in for the Giant Squid. The week after that, Peter manages to borrow a broomstick for Amy and they go on a race up and down the Quidditch Pitch, barely flying above head-height to let Amy make her inevitable crash landings but still barrelling into each other as viciously as they can. Spending break times making fun of their teachers and weekends exploring the grounds quickly turns into long hours in the library, Peter helping Amy whenever she gets stuck in Transfiguration and Amy gently correcting all his Muggle Studies essays. On his birthday, she pulls him into an empty classroom decked out with streamers, balloons, and a giant cake she made herself; sneaking into the kitchen and convincing the House Elves to let her use the ovens was an adventure all in itself.

All at once, it’s Christmas; Amy stays at school, because John and Peter are staying at school, and they spend two weeks exploring every inch of the castle, eating everything they can get their hands out, sneaking into each other’s’ Common Rooms and comparing armchair comfort levels and the quality of the wall hangings with disparaging comments. Amy doesn’t know how it happens this quickly, how it’s only been three months and already she can’t really remember _not_ being friends with Peter, already they’ve become Peter-and-Amy to students and teachers alike – when Professor McGonagall needs to speak to Peter about his homework, she finds him sitting at one end of the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, and when Mels gets fed up with tripping over piles of Amy’s robes every morning she sends a Howler specifically addressed to “Peter, or Amy, whoever you find first” – but she thinks it might have started that night, somewhere around their fifth game of twenty questions.

There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and missing a feast because you’re sitting in the dark for six hours eating sweets is one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep that's it for now. This was going to be a one-shot originally but then I wrote a 2000 word prologue. Oops? Anyway hope you enjoyed feel free to let me know if you did! Or didn't that's cool too. And come say hi on tumblr (bringyouhometoo). I'm planning on weekly updates, so if for some reason that doesn't happen you can always come bug me over there. Otherwise, see you here in a week for Year Two!


	3. Year Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ON SCHEDULE. HALLELUJAH. Read on for more flagrant meshing of Potter eras and references all over the place. For what it's worth, this takes place roughly in the early-2000s, in a Hogwarts where Voldemort magically just does not exist. Does that mean anything makes any sense? Probably not. Oh well. ON WITH THE SHOW.

**Year Two**

“Amy, stop _moving._ ”

“I can’t help it!”

“Well you keep jogging my arm.”

“Oh…” A little shamefaced, Amy shuffles over in her seat and presses her face even closer to the window. Her legs are still shaking slightly uncontrollably, but she sits on her hands and wills herself to stay still for a few minutes. This goes as well as could be hoped until she sees a sign that says LONDON - 20 MILES and lets out a shriek. Rory looks up, and has the presence of mind to lift his fountain pen off the roll of parchment before Amy grabs his arm. “Rory! Twenty miles!”

“Yes, I know.” Roy tells her patiently. “Makes sense, considering you pointed out the sign that said thirty miles about ten minutes ago.”

 “Ha ha,” Amy grins, too excited to be sour about his lack of enthusiasm. “Come on, you know it’s exciting!”

“Yeah, I know,” Rory admits, his eyes lighting up a little. “Seems funny to think it’s been two months, doesn’t it? Feels like -”

“ _Forever_.”

“- Much less than that, I was going to say,” Rory grins, and Amy rolls her eyes. “Hey, I like summer! No homework, I get to see my dad…”

“Yeah,” Amy cuts in, drawing out the word. “And no _magic_ or _flying_ or _anything._ Don’t you miss it?”

“I suppose,” Rory shrugs; he looks down at his books then, and carries on in a carefully calm voice. “Was nice getting to hang out outside of lessons and stuff, though.”

Amy fights the urge to snort. “It’s not like we don’t see each other at _school._ ”

“It’s different!  You’re always up in Gryffindor.”

“Rory, it’s my _House,_ ” Amy rolls her eyes. “That’s not exactly my fault.”

Rory opens his mouth as if to say something, then flushes, and shakes his head. “I know it’s not,” he tells her quietly. “It’s just been. Nice.”

“I’m –“ Amy stops, thinking about it; she _has_ spent a lot more time with Rory this summer, both of them sneaking out to talk about Hogwarts, going on long walks and picnics with Brian…Rory came to see Aunt Sharon with her, a few times. “Yeah,” she settles on. “It’s been nice.”

*

Two short hours later, they’re in London, ducking and weaving through the crowds in King’s Cross, leaning against the barrier nice and casually until they fall through and emerge, blinking, onto Platform 9 and ¾. Getting their trunks onto the train is a blur; Mels finding them and throwing an arm around each of them with a high-pitched shriek of excitement is almost overwhelming; and then – then, _finally,_ the train is pulling away from the station and they’re on their way.

“So we’re second years now,” Mels says, a little abruptly, as soon as they’ve settled down into their compartment. Amy grins and nods, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Yeah!”

“You know what that means?”

Amy frowns slightly. “We…won’t be the babies anymore?”

“No! Well,” Mels pauses, nodding her head in agreement. “Well, _yes._ But that’s not what I meant. I meant _Quidditch._ ”

“Oh!”

At that, Rory – who has until now been leaning out of the door to the corridor, cheering on an ongoing game of Exploding Snap – leans back inside, his eyes lit up and the tops of his ears slightly singed.

“Quidditch!”

Mels gives him an amused smile. “Good look, Williams.”

“What?” When Mels merely nods to the streaks of soot framing his face, Rory pulls a face. “Oh, well. What were you saying about Quidditch, Amy?”

“I wasn’t,” Amy laughs. “It was Mels.”

“I’m going to be Seeker,” Mels tells them both, as if it was already a done deal. “I’ve been practising all summer.”

Amy has to grin at her friend’s easy self-confidence. “Good luck,” she says, and Mels flashes her a smile.

“Luck? Don’t need luck. I’m _going_ to be Seeker. You’ll see.”

“You should talk to Peter,” Amy remembers then. “He’s been Ravenclaw Seeker for a year now, I bet he’d give you some pointers.”

Mels just scoffs. “If he could stop stammering for long enough to get on his broomstick, maybe.”

“He’s not _that_ bad…”

“Last time he saw me in the corridor, he just turned around and walked the other way. Made him ten minutes late for charms, Clara says.”

“Well, you’re not nice to him, so –“

“I’m nice!” Mels pauses, then grins. “Okay, it’s fun winding him up, but he knows it’s all fun, right?”

“Maybe you should tell him that,” Amy says, slightly more sternly than she intended.

“Why is this so important?” Mels asks her, and Amy has to shrug.

“I don’t know,” she says slowly, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “I just don’t like it when my friends don’t get on.”

Mels looks at her for a moment longer – and then shrugs, and nods some form of assent. “Okay, okay, you win,” she tells Amy, and pokes her in the side. “I’ll be nice to Peter for you.”

“Thank you,” Amy grins. “And then he can help you practise for try-outs!”

“What makes you think I couldn’t already fly rings around him?”

“He’s a fourth year! He’s been on the team before!”

“Yeah, and?”

Amy fights the urge to defend Peter’s Quidditch skills any and just laughs, leaning back into her chair. “Fine, don’t ask him,” she shrugs. “Just an idea.”

“I might try out for Hufflepuff,” Rory announces then, out of the blue; Amy can’t help the dubious look she gives him, but he flushes defensively anyway. “What?”

“Didn’t know you played!”

“Well, I – no, I don’t _yet,_ but –“ Rory shakes his head vaguely. “I got top marks in flying lessons all year, and the team needs a new Chaser.”

“Yeah, but – “ whatever snide remark Mels may have been about to make is (perhaps thankfully) Interrupted when the compartment door slides open and Peter comes crashing inside.

“Found you!” he crows, flinging himself into the seat next to Amy and throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Amy Pond!”

“Hi, Peter,” Amy half-giggles, shrugging out of his hug and poking at the dimple that appears in one cheek when he grins at her. “Good summer?”

“The _best,_ ” Peter tells her, his whole face becoming (if that’s even possible) somehow even more animated. “John and I went on a camping trip to France, just driving the bike from place to place, there’s so much to see there, honestly, it was amazing! Did you know there’s this whole all-magical town in the south, near Avignon? It’s bigger than Hogsmeade, way bigger, it developed in the middle ages when they were burning witches and people needed a place to hide, it’s incredible, all this old architecture with magic holding it together, secret tunnels and hide-aways – _really_ secret, tiny little spaces with undetectable extension charms, there was a chest of drawers that could hide a family of six – “

As Peter goes on, Mels turns her attention to flicking pieces of tissue paper into Rory’s hair, and Rory’s eyes start glazing over, Amy settles back into her seat and lets the feeling settle into her veins; excitement and nerves and happiness all fizzing together. They’re going _back_.

*

The train ride is a blur of stories and jokes and shared lunches; by the time they reach Hogsmeade, Amy almost feels like she never left. Amy and Mels lose track of Rory and Peter once they get to the castle and have to go sit with the Gryffindors – but all four of them find each other afterwards, and they end up causing a traffic jam on the stairs by standing there and hotly debating which first years look the most promising.

“Move _along_ up there, please – oh. It’s you.”

“Hello, Rose,” Peter says, only slightly guiltily; Amy nudges him in the side, and he nods quickly. “Sorry, sorry, we’ll move…”

Rose just shakes her head, and turns her attention back to the swarm of first-years following her every move; still, it’s late, and they reach a unanimous agreement to continue the conversation some other time.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, anyway,” Mels says to Rory. “Reckon we’ll still have Herbology together?”

“Probably,” Rory nods. “Cool!”

Amy catches Peter’s eye, and kicks gently at his foot.

“Ow!”

“See you at break?” she asks, ignoring his outraged expression; Peter’s face clears, and he nods, beaming.

“Absolutely, Pond.”

“Yeah,” Rory echoes. “See you then?”

Peter turns to him, and if he’s surprised then his face doesn’t quite show it; still, Amy thinks she can see some kind of tension in the way he’s holding himself, just a little bit defensively. He just nods, though. “If you want.”

“I was going to ask – “ Rory starts, then stops. Amy raises an eyebrow at him, and he carries on, although the words sound like they require some considerable effort. “I want to try out for the Quidditch team. Wanted to know if you had any – tips.”

“Oh!” Peter nods, his enthusiasm hesitant but genuine. “Yes, of course! Happy to!”

“Me too,” Mels throws in, with a slightly bemused look at Rory. “And _I_ actually want to be Chaser, so you’ll be able to teach me all the tricks, right, Peter?”

“I will?” For a moment, Amy seriously considers positioning herself to catch Peter when he inevitably faints – but he just nods, swaying slightly on the spot. “I will, yes. Okay!”

“It’s a date,” Mels grins, then grabs Amy’s arm and starts pulling her away. “Come on, I want to go to bed.”

And, leaving an entirely bewildered Peter and a not much-less uncomfortable Rory to say their awkward goodbyes to each other at the foot of the stairs, Mels drags Amy up towards Gryffindor tower.

“Okay,” Amy says, as soon as they’re out of earshot. “What was all that about?”

“I was being nice!” Mels protests, with a bit of a smile. “You told me to be nice!”

“No, not that –“ Amy waves her off impatiently, though privately she’s not sure she likes Mels’ idea of _being nice_ all that much. “Rory!”

“Oh, _that_ ,” Mels laughs, sounding awfully superior and suddenly much older than Amy. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, actually,” Amy replies, a little tersely; she loves Mels, she really does, but she can be _infuriating._ “That’s why I asked.”

“Okay, okay…” Mels nods, patting Amy’s hand gently. “So remember when you told me to be nice to Peter?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t explain why Rory-”

“ _Rory_ ’s now being nicer to Peter,” Mels interrupts her. “Because you don’t like it when your friends don’t get on, and anything that boy can do to make you like him more, he’ll do.”

Amy’s hands are warm; she looks away, not sure what to do with that information, and almost trips over her own feet. Staring hard at her shoes now, she concentrates on speaking calmly. “Well _that’s_ the most stupid thing I’ve heard all day.”

Mels stifles a laugh; Amy represses the urge to hit her. “Is it?”

*

“Aaaaand Hufflepuff are in possession, leading 110 points to 30, will they make it 120? Williams – Abbot – Noble – Abbot – Williams – where _are_ the opposition’s beaters? Oh, flanking Smith, that makes sense – Williams takes aim – he shoots, will Jones save, _go on, Martha_ – sorry Professor – he scores! That’s 10 points to Hufflepuff, and by golly we haven’t seen this strong a side from them in years…”

“Go Rory!” Amy shouts, jumping to her feet and waving a yellow-and-black scarf wildly above her head. People up and down her row are giving her funny looks, maybe because she’s got a Ravenclaw scarf wrapped around her neck, or maybe just because she’s a Gryffindor and she’s not supposed to root for anyone else.

Amy doesn’t care, though; up in the air, Rory’s doing a quick celebratory loop, and he waves at her with the biggest grin she’s seen on his face all term. Then a bludger streaks past him, and he almost loses his balance – she claps anyway, still whooping. That’s when Mels grabs her arm, and starts shrieking loudly.

“Amy, _look_ –“

She’s not the only one; up and down the stands, people are craning their necks and pointing up into the sky. Fifty, sixty feet above them, a tiny blurred figure in blue robes is streaking towards the ground.

“And all eyes on the Ravenclaw Seeker as he seems to have spotted something – could it be – yes, that’s the Snitch, with Smith closing in on it fast – Lupin will have to move fast if he wants to – _oh,_ too late, and Peter Smith has caught the Snitch! RAVENCLAW WINS!”

The Ravenclaw section of the stands erupts into cheers as Peter cruises to an easy landing, the tiny Snitch held tightly in one hand. He turns slowly on the spot, grinning from ear to ear – his eyes find Amy, and he waves at her with his free hand – then the rest of the team are descending on him in a blur of blue and bronze, and for the next few minutes there’s absolute chaos down on the pitch.

By the time Amy fights her  way through the crowds, most of the players have dispersed with their own friends and well-wishers – but Peter’s still there, looking a little dazed as he shakes Teddy’s hand and tells him it was “Just luck, honestly, mate, could just have easily been you…”

“Peter!” Amy calls, and his head whips around; but he’s still talking to Teddy, and Rory’s standing there, looking both exhausted and mildly disgruntled. He hangs back, though, waiting for Amy to come to him. So she does, throwing an arm around his shoulders and yelling “You were brilliant!”

“Thanks,” Rory laughs, patting her vaguely on the back; by the time she pulls back, he looks mostly mollified, and Amy wishes she didn’t have a pretty good guess as to why that might be.

“Seriously,” she says, forcing the thought away; not today, not here. “You were so good, you should have won by rights, probably –“

“Ahem.”

“Oh, shut up, you were brilliant too,” Amy grins, hardly bothering to flinch when Peter appears behind her and sticks both hands over her eyes. “Oh, _wow,_ I wonder who that could be…?”

Peter laughs then, letting her go and bumping his hip against hers before turning to Rory. “Hey. Good game.”

“Yeah,” Rory nods, somewhat stiffly; his eyes keep flickering between the two of them, and there’s something sour in the curl of his mouth. And just like that, Amy’s good mood is threatening to disappear – she almost wants to stomp her foot, they’re being so _stupid._

“Let’s do something fun,” she declares, angling herself only semi-unconsciously so she’s stood between them, very carefully edging away until she’s no longer touching Peter but not quite leaning into Rory, either. “Let’s go get food from the kitchens! Have a feast!”

Peter looks at her for one moment, and then shakes his head. “They’re probably waiting for me back in the common room,” he says, shrugging his shoulders regretfully. “It’d be rude not to show up.”

Amy sticks her tongue out at him, but nods. “Fine, fine,” she says, patting him on the head and grinning when he stretches up to his full height to get out of her reach. “Go let everyone tell you how fantastic you are. _We’re_ going to get food, right, Rory?”

“Right!”

“I’ll see you later, though,” Peter promises, already shouldering his broom. “I’ll be back before you can say _where’s he got to now_?”

“Yeah, yeah, go,” Amy grins, tugging on the sleeve of Rory’s robes and pulling him towards the castle. They make it all of five feet before Peter’s launching himself at them from behind, his broom only narrowly avoiding the side of Amy’s head.

“NOT THAT FAST!” Peter shouts, and laughs loudly when Amy shrieks and Rory almost trips over. “But pretty fast…”

“Just _go.”_

He goes, with a chuckle and an attempted swagger that just ends up looking lopsided; Amy giggles, then turns to Rory. “So! Food?”

“Food,” Rory nods, looking about a million times happier already. They head inside, and spend an enjoyable afternoon letting the House-Elves cajole them into taste-testing every pudding on the menu for the next three months; by the time Peter joins them, face flushed from the party and a few extra bottles of Butterbeer in his hands, they’re both too full to do much more than wave at him and point, wordlessly, to the tray of treacle tarts they’re supposed to be passing judgement on. 

Rory actually falls asleep a few minutes later, a bit of icing sugar stuck to his nose and his head drooping onto Amy’s shoulder; she tenses for a few seconds, then grins at Peter and holds up a jug of chocolate sauce. “Let’s _draw_ on him.”

*

“Amy!”

She’s almost out of the Great Hall when she hears the shout behind her; stuffing the last bit of toast into her mouth, and waving for Mels to head down to the greenhouses without her, Amy turns around. Rory’s running towards her, his tie hanging at a slightly crooked angle and his face oddly flushed. As he comes to a stop in front of her, Amy has to fight the urge to giggle; he’s put so much gel in his hair, it looks rock solid.

“Hi, Rory!”

“I wanted to –“ he stops, tripping over the words. “I mean. Happy birthday!”

Surprised, and a little flustered, Amy takes the offered parcel – it’s tied together with some red string, and there are a few bluebells stuck into the bows. She shakes it cautiously, but there’s no tell-tale rattle or other distinguishing sound. “Rory! You didn’t have to!”

“Open it,” he tells her eagerly, and she has to smile, her fingers already digging into the wrapping paper – a few pulls and tugs later, and she’s pulling a light scarf out of the paper, long and shimmery and red.

“Wow…” Amy breathes, eyes lighting up as she runs her fingers through the material. “Thank you, Rory, wow, that’s really cool –“

“I figured you could do with a scarf,” he says, grinning a little sheepishly when she raises an eyebrow. “I mean, you’re always nicking Peter’s, and at least this one’s the right colour.”

“Right,” Amy laughs, though the surprised excitement in her stomach is starting to feel a lot like exasperation. “Thank you!”

Rory nods, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet and running one hand casually through his carefully-spiked hair; Amy tries hard to keep a straight face when his fingers get caught in a particularly gel-heavy tuft. 

“You doing anything fun for your birthday?”

“Not… Not really,” Amy shrugs, without stopping to consider why she doesn’t just tell him, because down that road lie thoughts she _really_ doesn’t want to be having, thoughts that all sound like Mels’ half-smiled insinuations. “We’ve got Astronomy tonight, so I won’t have a lot of time.”

“Oh. Well, if you want, we could like – I could get some food from the kitchens and we could have a picnic, or something. If you wanted.”

“Rory, that’s –“ Amy hesitates, on the brink of saying yes; then she shakes her head. “Actually, um, I should probably get my homework for tomorrow done before Astronomy.”

“On your _birthday_? Do it in the morning!”

Amy doesn’t bother taking offense at Rory’s incredulous tone; it’s a fair point, she doesn’t usually care, but Snape’s been breathing down her neck, just looking for a chance to put her in detention, and if she’s going to be tired tomorrow she really can’t afford to hand in a mediocre essay. Rory doesn’t look convinced, though.

“Why will you be tired?” he asks; Rory is nothing if not persistent, Amy registers with a stab of annoyance. “Don’t you have first lesson off the day after Astronomy?”

 “ _Yeah,_ but…” Amy stops, realising just how deep she’s dug herself in; then she squares her shoulders, and carries on. Rory can just _deal_ with it. “Peter’s said to wait up there after we finish with Professor Sinistra, we’re going to try and catch a meteor shower, and he’s going to Hogsmeade later to sneak some food back.”

Watching the disappointment turn to barely-controlled anger on Rory’s face would be funny, if Amy didn’t feel so much like turning on her heel and running away from it all. “Oh,” he says, nodding slowly. “So you do have plans.”

“I guess,” Amy shrugs, running her fingers through the scarf in her hands without really being aware of why she’s doing it. “Just some stars, though. Didn’t think you’d want to come, you don’t really like Astronomy, right? And Mels wants to go to bed, Peter already told me he asked her.”

Rory nods again, his jaw clenched almost comically now. “Convenient.”

“Rory!” Amy almost throws up her hands in frustration. “What does that mean?”

“He likes you,” he shoots back, his tone accusatory and his eyes narrowed – Amy wants to laugh, but can’t quite dredge up the sound.

“What?”

“Peter,” Rory pushes on, almost vicious now; Amy’s aware of the looks they’re getting, but she doesn’t think she cares enough to keep her voice down. “He _likes_ you, and you’d rather go _stargazing_ with him on your birthday than – “

“Rory, don’t,” Amy cuts in, taking a step forward and lifting her chin slightly. “Just because you’re upset, that’s not fair, I don’t – he doesn’t – he’s my _friend,_ and anyway, he’s _old._ ”

“Mels said you said he was hot,” Rory mumbles defensively, his ears very red now.

“ _No,_ she asked me if he was hot, and I said he was…” Amy pauses, has to think back. “Funny.”

“You didn’t say he’s not, then?”

Amy crosses her arms. “You’re being stupid.”

“And you’re being really –“ Rory stops, searching for the word. “Really –“

 _“_ Really _what,_ Rory?”

“Naïve,” he settles on finally. “It’s obvious he likes you, and you’re being really quite – encouraging –“

Anger flares up, bright and hot in Amy’s chest; she pushed past Rory, the discarded wrapping paper tangling around her feet. “I don’t have to listen to you. I’m late for Herbology.”

“Amy –“

“I’ll talk to you when you’ve stopped being upset about _nothing._ ”

“Look, I’m sorry –“ Rory’s hurrying to keep up now, and he sounds so miserable that Amy’s half-tempted to turn around and tell him she didn’t mean it; but then he reaches out with one hand to pull her back, and she tugs herself free.

“Thanks for the scarf,” she mutters, suddenly very embarrassed; and she doesn’t look back as she crosses the Entrance Hall, doesn’t stop until she’s safely out in the grounds, doesn’t let herself reach up to wipe a hand across her eyes until she’s almost at the greenhouses.

*

“I give up,” Mels announces; she throws her book down, and flops backwards into the grass. “Done.”

“That was an impressive academic streak,” Rory mutters, from behind his book. “Almost five minutes.”

Mels throws her quill at him.

“This is _awful,_ ” she complains, squinting up into the sunshine. “And _boring._ I know all of this stuff. It’s so _nice._ Why are we _working_?”

“Because we’ve got exams soon, and I’m pretty sure I _don’t_ know all of it,” Rory says, only slightly impatiently. “Mels, it’s fine if you want to stop, but I need to finish this section, okay? We’d really like to concentrate over here…”

“Mels is right,” Amy cuts him off, and grins when he shoots her a betrayed look. “What? Rory, come on, let’s take a break, we’ll learn so much better if we have some food or something, we’ve been reading notes for hours and hours –“

“Half an hour-“

“And _hours,_ ” Amy finishes emphatically, leaning back until she’s lying in the grass next to Mels. “Ahh. Much better.”

“Amy…”

“Shhh,” Amy murmurs, her eyes already falling shut. “Just read your book. We’ll be quiet, we swear.”

Rory grumbles something about _it’s your grades_ to himself, but clearly decides against saying anything out loud; Mels and Amy, meanwhile, pretend not to have heard him, simply lying in the grass, stretched out to enjoy the late spring sunshine. After a few minutes of quiet, Amy feels her breathing start to slow down; she’s so comfortable, and they really have been working hard, surely no one would mind if she just rested her eyes a bit…

“Guess who!”

Something’s tickling her nose; Amy splutters, and waves at her face. By the time she gets her eyes open, she’s already identified the chain of daisies brushing across her face, but that doesn’t stop her from glaring at Peter. “Not funny.”

“I thought it was pretty good, actually,” he grins, then offers her a hand up. “Taking a break?”

“Before you say anything,” Mels mumbles, her face still pressed into the grass. “I’m done. You can test me on anything in the book, I know it all.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Peter nods, disarmingly earnest. “Which is why I brought this!”

He holds out a picnic basket stuffed with enough lunch to feed a small army, it looks like – cauldron cakes and sandwiches and pasties, bottles of iced pumpkin juice… Amy’s mouth falls open, and he beams at her. “Good?”

“Amazing,” she says weakly, taking an offered pasty and taking a huge bite. “Oh my god. I’m in love.”

Mels perks up at that, reaching across Amy to pull out a small stack of sandwiches. “Oi, Williams,” she grins, poking Rory in the leg with her toes until he finally glances up from his book. “Pay attention! Food!”

“Sorry, I was just _trying_ to get to the end of this chapter-“ Rory starts, slightly grumpy; then he catches sight of Peter and Amy, watching him with identical bemused smiles, and relaxes slightly. Ever since Amy’s birthday, he’s been making an effort around Peter – Amy thinks she must be the only one who can see just how much it takes, though. “I guess I can take a break. Thanks, Peter.”

“No problem, mate,” Peter grins, holding out a bottle of juice and then leaning back into the grass to shade his eyes, his head resting lightly against Amy’s legs. “Revision getting the better of you a bit this year?”

“It’s horrible,” Amy says immediately, pulling a face. “Feels like we learned twice as much as we did last year, but that’s just twice as much stuff to _remember._ ”

“Yeah, first year’s a doddle,” Peter nods. “Chin up, though! Close to the end!”

“I just want to be done already,” Amy sighs, leaning over and taking the sandwich out of Peter’s hands to take a bit out of it. “Oh, that one’s good, what’s in that?”

“Egg and cress, I think,” Peter tells her, looking only slightly perturbed. “There’s about five more in the box, you know…”

“No, I think I’m good with this one,” Amy grins, ruffling his hair. “Thanks!”

Peter swats somewhat ineffectually at her ankle, and she kicks him in the elbow; they settle back into a comfortable silence. Eventually he starts a quiz on all the spells they’ll have to memorise for their Charms exam – Amy would probably preferred her revision break to actually be a _break,_ but she has to admit it’s kind of fun, sitting in the grass with her three best friends, all of them shouting over each other, Peter handing out Chocolate Frogs for every correct answer, the setting sun making everything around them glow red and gold.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for short chapter. Writing Quidditch is a lot harder and more time-consuming than I anticipated. Also, yes, that's Teddy Lupin. No, if we're getting technical about what year this is supposedly set in, he should not be there. But John was also apparently at Hogwarts for nine years, so clearly there's just a lot of funny stuff going on. Call it timey-wimey and leave me alone. Anyway! Hope you all enjoyed! Feel free to say hi on tumblr (bringyouhometoo) or in the comments! SEE YOU NEXT WEDNESDAY!


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